Mine was a young silence
Hers was an old knock on the door
We had a neon floor
The roof was made of islands
An old stink bug lay on the mantle
Innocuous as risotto,
A thank you note
Time-stamped in the mail
With three green birds
She welcomed me back
To where we were going
Next song, seven flowers
Best seat, eight whales
Why did I even care
About the risotto,
The order of things,
Whether the rice was al dente?
I’d love to get that angst back
I’d love to begin again in an empty dish
As if I could blow into my hand
To remove the nothing
That was already there
The Writing of John B. Randall 